silhouettes of moments it was late when you made your way home, walking slowly down the hill (hands in pockets and tired).
I knew you would come and when, having asked your friends before. So there I waited, book in hand, staring at the pages, in front of your door. I do not even know what I wanted there, but an aching stretching pulling got me there. Tired that I was, pointless that it was.
We whispered, everyone else asleep, herbal tea and a candle on the kitchen table. So we spent the hours until it was light again, I pulled on my shoes as you made light with your mobile phone. I did not look up, could not, and will forever remember that silhouette of yours standing in the door frame, black against blueish-gray. Unmoving.
Cycling back home, tears on my cheeks, feeling so alive, the things lost and missed and only imagined: now I understand. I think. (probably not)
and yet - the pure beauty of countless and similar moments lives on forever as poetry.  ¶ 4:38 AM